Asphalt and the Sky
by temet nosce
Summary: This is when they came together, to ground each other, because nothing is ever that good for long.


The Asphalt and the Sky

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG13 (Really not sure.)

Spoilers: Six Meetings Before Lunch, ITSOTG I & II, and Drought Conditions.

Feedback: If only in my dreams.

Summary: This is when they came together, to ground each other, because nothing is ever that good for long.

Random: Because someone asked me with a wink and a nod. I'm not sure if this was yes.

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There were instances. Times when she came to him or when he came to her. It was predictable; inevitable, like Josh and Donna orbiting each other but never quite touching. There was no set, clear-cut path for them, no definite trajectory for their lives to delicately follow, together or separate. But this is what they had. They never found each other in sadness or great confusion. Certainly not desperation, or " … where the road was wholly lost and gone." There was no allegory for either of them.

The sun would be shining, Bartlet would make it through the day able to walk on his own, or the end of the day wouldn't be greeted with dread. They had made a difference, and somewhere in the indeterminable future exists the result of that difference. This is when they came together, to ground each other, because nothing is ever that good for long.

An hour after Josh had been released from the hospital, guaranteed a full recovery, CJ was in Toby's bed. His hands on her and fingers inside of her held a promise of nothing, his lips and tongue tracing her collarbone a reminder of too good to be true, and with each grunted, effortless contact he wanted to make her, tried to make her believe this was all a dream. It's possible that sudden national crisis couldn't be avoided the next day or someone else might try to rain on them with high-powered artillery. He was telling her that tomorrow is tomorrow, but today is now and she may never feel this good again.

The day Mendoza was confirmed Toby was happy. He knew it was fleeting, and that day would just be a burnt edge on tomorrow. It would end up more a memory and less the feeling actually involved. Early the next morning CJ was shoving him into the backseat of her car because the reaffirmation of their lives wasn't meant to happen on her bed. Not that night. At their entangled feet, the door slammed shut, tomorrow was on their heels. Secure in the knowledge that her windows were tinted and seats scotch guarded, she reached for his belt. There was no finality in this, but corners would be cut. They had to be back at work in four hours. Her muscles quivered and contracted around him as he heard loose coins fall out of his pocket to the car floor. He looked up at her; face accented by streetlights and unruly hair, and wondered how something so beautiful could exist in the same world as foreign governments that regulated hate, death, and taxes.

She had dropped him off after the party. She didn't walk him to his door, offer her condolences yet again, or tell him things would be better. It's not what she did, it's not what they did, and it's so easy to pretend things are okay until you're on the outside looking in on a semblance of two lives.

Twenty minutes she had been trying to get to sleep, pretending she didn't know what the problem was. She tossed and turned, threw curses at the wall, and claimed allergies were causing the watering in her eyes. Sitting up suddenly, she was sick with herself. Disgusted, she had accepted instead of questioned, she had gone downstream with whatever it was they were stuck inside, not even trying to go against the current, to make her own way.

At his front door forty-five minutes later, she couldn't quite decide whether she was about to make a mistake or cause an accident. It was two-thirty a.m., and as far as she knew nothing good had happened that day. She knocked on his door, and crossed her shaking arms in front of her. The door opened with no pretense or enlightened moment; she just stared at him. He was hardly recognizable to her; there was no pen, no cigar, and no alcohol in his hand. Rumpled and grumpy, that was hardly unusual, but he looked so inherently sad. She hopes it wasn't there the entire time.

"Hey."

David's glasses are peeking out from his shirt pocket, and the cut on his cheek is a reminder of why she's there.

"Are you okay?"

More a sigh, if anything, "CJ …"

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I'm glad you came."

"Toby," she starts to cry again. She's still somewhat convinced it may be her allergies. He's no fool, though.

"I don't like us. Not like this. We should, uh" He takes her hand and pulls her inside the apartment. The door is shut.

"All the wrong times. We shouldn't wait for the good, we should make our own."

"That sounds fine and good, but"

A little scared, "But? But what?"

Smiling, "I'm tired. Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," leading her to the bedroom, "I'll let you hog the blanket."

"Very courteous of you."

"Not really," as he brushes hair away from her neck. "I'll be groping you while you're sleeping. I'd rather have you warm."


End file.
